


Oh, Angel Please

by wyntre



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining, Aziraphale's an idiot, Crowley's an idiot, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-05-18 08:09:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19330555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntre/pseuds/wyntre
Summary: ineffable/ɪnˈɛfəb(ə)l/adjectivetoo great or extreme to be expressed or described in words.Two bottles of the most expensive wine in Crowley's extensive collection. Three days until Armagdidn't.It's been six thousand years.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, we didn't deserve the absolute masterpiece of TV that was Good Omens. We also didn't deserve the novel but that's a different story. 
> 
> I stan two (2) dumbass, celestial beings in love. 
> 
> Also 'you go too fast for me Crowley' literally killed me and I am writing this story from Hell.
> 
> Also y'all need to listen to Angel, Please by Ra Ra Riot and then think about the rotunda break up.

To say that Crowley was a dramatic bitch would be an understatement. He was incredibly dramatic, he would put plants down the garbage disposal if he was displeased with their progress, or if he was having a bad day. And he had been having a few of those lately. It had come as a surprise to him, even though he had always known deep down, when he realised several things over the course of the haphazard ride in the Bentley he took around London as he tried to gather his thoughts;

  1. He was an idiot. And Aziraphale seemed to enjoy that about him.
  2. Aziraphale had always been the one constant in his very long life;  
  
And
  3. If he wasn’t mistaken, and he wasn’t, he’d wanted to do more than just push Aziraphale up against the hospital wall when they were tracking down the Antichrist.



 

A familiar song made its way out of the one working speaker in the Bentley (he really meant to fix that). He sighed, mildly exasperated. It wasn't that Crowley hated Fleetwood Mac, it's just that he preferred his music to be a bit more theatrical and flamboyant. Like he was. So it came as a shock to him (as much as anyone else) when he found himself singing along under his breath to _Say You Love Me_ as he drove through Central London at 90 miles per hour. Why was he listening to the radio instead of his beloved _Best of Queen_ is anyone's guess, but I suspect it was because _Somebody to Love_ was hitting a little too close to home for him to manage right now, and there were only so many plants he could angrily put down the garbage disposal. Because if he was honest with himself, and that was something he wasn't very good at, he loved Aziraphale and had for the past six thousand years. Well love was a weird way of putting the ineffable and impossible things he felt, a human concept that didn't quite fit the narrative.

Angels and demons didn't feel love in the same way that humans did. They were supernatural beings, capable of great thought and love in a broader sense of the term, not just as a pseudonym for wanting to have sex (though, that's something Crowley wasn't adverse to and if he was honest with himself he would propse the idea, probably to much scandal from the angel) but in six thousand years no-one had ever moved him the way Aziraphale did, and honestly it was beginning to get on the demon's nerves. Crowley was familiar with the idea of lust, that wasn't new and in fact, what he felt for Aziraphale was so much more than lust.

Fleetwood Mac faded, only to be replaced with the dulcet tones of Fred Astaire. He hummed along to _The Way You Look Tonight_ as he continued to drive through London, in the vague direction of the bookshop.

 _“You go too fast for me, Crowley,”_ a statement that rang in his ears long after Aziraphale had left his car that night in 1967, laden with double meaning and unspoken feelings. How fast was too fast? Was six thousand years too fast? Even now, three days to the end of the world, and Crowley was ruminating on something that was said several decades ago. But to say that the impossible things Crowley felt were one-sided would be folly. Indeed, Crowley had a very long memory, and had tucked away various instances where Aziraphale was incredibly and unabashedly flirting with him – including the moment in the Bastille on the eve of the French Revolution, when the angel had looked him up and down as if he was something to be devoured, before remembering himself and realising just how ridiculous he looked. If only, but they’d not been game enough then, or even now. And Crowley had seen mountain ranges come into existence faster than the rate at which their relationship progressed. Down through the centuries, they’d come to know one another, rely on, care for; underlining that was a mutual, enigmatic… something.

 

Crowley pulled into the kerb by the bookshop, killed the engine and took a deep breath. He reached onto the backseat and pulled out two bottles of Château Lafite Bordeaux Rouge, of 1889 vintage, and spent a good ten minutes staring at the faded labels. Something about tonight was different. It shouldn’t have been, though, it was just two old friends having drinks, something they’d done countless times since the Garden. Fuck it. Crowley exited the car and opened the doors to the bookshop with a snap of his fingers and usual swagger.

“Fancy a drink, angel?” the demon raised the bottles and made sure to draw out ‘angel’, a term that had become a declaration of his feelings as much as a descriptor of the being who had been by his side for six thousand years and counting.

Aziraphale looked up from the book he was reading and softened as soon as he laid eyes on the tall, thin figure in front of him. “Crowley. What are you doing here?”

“Alcohol.” Crowley shrugged. “C’mon, I have these two bottles that need to be drunk.” He snapped his fingers and two glasses filled themselves, before draping himself on a chair, long legs slung over one of the arms.

The talk flowed between them easily, as it always had, and all of a sudden, both bottles were gone and all Crowley could see through his drunken haze was Aziraphale’s piercing blue eyes twinkling as he excitedly talked about a first edition copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ he had acquired in 1891, when he had known Oscar himself and moved in the same circles as he did. The book had in fact, been a gift from the author; something Aziraphale was very proud of.

“Oscar would invite me to lunch,” Aziraphale hiccupped. "We would dine at Brown's and then attend the 100 Guineas Club." He paused, considering whether to continue that line of thinking. "I always did like him, I was rather sad when they put him to hard labour."

"Humans can be so callous, angel." Crowley's voice was soft, but tinged with jealousy as the angel recounted his friendship with the author. To be fair, he had slept through most of the 19th century out of spite, so he couldn't really begrudge Aziraphale for making friends in his absence, a hundred years is a long time, even in angel terms. Still, still…

"You're ruminating, my dear," Aziraphale broke through the patter of thoughts racing around Crowley's head. "Is there something you need to discuss?" The question was pointed, blunt and much to Crowley's chagrin.

"Well… I…" he stopped just short of word vomiting everything.

"Satan got your tongue?."

"Oh shut up," but there was no real malice in the words, just every feeling Crowley had had for the past six thousand years. Aziraphale smiled, a smile that Crowley had fallen for all those centuries ago, a smile that would quicken his heart if he had one.

"I think we should sober up," Crowley snapped his fingers and the bottles were miraculously full again. "Always an odd feeling that." He made his way over to where Aziraphale sat, perched delicately on the antique sofa and sprawled beside him.

The angel turned to look at him, all soft featured and cherub-like, and Crowley for his part, fell a bit more - if that was even possible. There was heat between them, there had been for six thousand years, and Crowley's hands itched to reach out and feel the contours of Aziraphale's face and form.

"Crowley?" That voice, soft and musical; reminded the demon of the time they'd stood in the rain on the walls of Eden, watching Adam protect Eve from the lion.

"If there was someone you'd loved for thousands of years would you tell them?" Crowley blurted, before he could stop himself.

Aziraphale just raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, a prompt for the demon to keep going.

"Because there's someone, and they're beyond dense. I've been dropping hints for six thousand years. I wanted to run away with them to Alpha Centauri, but they told me I was being ridiculous…" Crowley let the last few words hang in the air, thick with meaning and undisclosed feelings.

There was a sharp intake of breath from Aziraphale. "Crowley… I…"

"Please tell me you aren't as dense as you seem to be."

"I didn't think you felt the same way," it was imperceptible and quiet, had Crowley been human he would have missed it.

Time slowed, to a pinpoint, a moment, a breath, a heartbeat; then sped up again like someone hitting play on a paused film.

"How long?" A statement so simple, and yet…

"Since Rome, at least that's when I realised. But if I'm honest with myself, it's been since the beginning." Aziraphale's blue eyes sought Crowley's golden ones, looking for something, anything. What he found was a look so tender he felt everything dissolve and reform in front of him, they could be the only beings left in the universe, with infinity stretching before them.

An infinity to love, and a thousand lifetimes that would still not be enough for them.

Crowley reached out to stroke Aziraphale's soft cheek, the demon's hot skin cooling on contact with the angel. His eyes flashed, all sunset yellow, possessive almost. "Oh angel, you ruined me from the start." Aziraphale leaned into the touch, a soft gasp escaping his lips.

"I can't tell you how much I have always wanted this," the angel’s words were gentle, and breathy. “I’ve been at a crossroads since I met you on the walls of Eden. Will I Fall?”

“No, angel.” Crowley moved in closer, tilting Aziraphale’s face towards his.

“No, I suppose not, I think I Fell a long time ago,” it was Aziraphale who closed the final inches between them. It took Crowley a moment to realise what was happening, and another moment to respond, but Aziraphale’s mouth was warm, soft and pliable under his. A soft moan escaped Aziraphale. Every single emotion they had kept tucked away poured out and into the air around them. The walls were broken, and Crowley knew there was no going back now; and Aziraphale for his part, didn’t want to go back. This was all he’d wanted, since the beginning, since Crowley had appeared beside him all golden-eyed and wry smiles, since he had sheltered him from the rain on the walls of Eden. The air crackled with electricity, and the moment seemed to stretch forwards and back into oblivion. If Aziraphale died, right now in this moment, he would die happy and content. He found himself being backed into the arm of the sofa by Crowley, who broke off the kiss momentarily, only moving a centimetre back to where their hot breaths mingled and all Aziraphale could look at were his lips, red raw and swollen, and think about how he wished he was still kissing them.

“How fast, angel?” Crowley breathed the words, lust dripping from every syllable.

“I’ll tell you to slow down if I need you to. Right now, Crowley, you are going at just the right speed.”

Crowley growled, eyes flashing. Aziraphale felt a surge of heat that was new, but not unpleasant at the sound. Crowley’s teeth found Aziraphale’s neck and bit down gently. The angel gasped, and Crowley’s hands grasped the lapels of Aziraphale’s coat, smirking into his angel’s neck before placing a gentle kiss to the heated skin.

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

Aziraphale nodded. “This is my first time.”

“Well, leave it to me, I’ll look after you. Let’s get that bow tie off, shall we?” Crowley’s nimble fingers undid the knot on the bow tie and dropped the offending item on the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley could have easily snapped his fingers and removed their clothes but instead he set about slowly undressing Aziraphale. Taking his time to feel, to marvel at every curve and angle that his angel's perfect form held, so often hidden by layers upon layers of inconvenient cloth. Crowley's serpentine eyes held his gaze steadily as his lithe fingers mapped every part of Aziraphale he could find. Aziraphale's body was soft under Crowley's rough hands. The demon's long nails left gentle scratches on the unblemished, alabaster skin as he felt every inch of Aziraphale, drinking him in as if his whole existence depended on it. He lingered over the angel's belly, feeling the smooth, roundness and gentle squish that he adored. Like so much of Aziraphale, the belly was another adorable part that Crowley wanted to worship. He wanted to commit every part of the being underneath him to memory, encased in amber, should he never get the opportunity to have his angel like this again. 

"Crowley,"Aziraphale gasped, as the demon's touches left trails of goosebumps and heat on his skin, ghosts of past touches that Aziraphale needed to be repeated again and again. An eternity like this, with his hands wrapping themselves in Crowley's flaming locks, while the demon peppered his body with worshipful kisses. If this was the last thing he felt, he could discorporate happily.

"You're so beautiful, angel," Crowley purred reverently as he slinked back up Aziraphale's body to capture his soft mouth again. His hand tangled in the angel's blond curls, finding purchase as he felt the world around him spin as he kissed Aziraphale as if he was the very essence of life itself. Time stopped, paused, retraced to a single moment where the stars aligned and Crowley was holding onto an ineffable feeling, oblivion and every lifetime they had shared and would share. Every. Single. Moment. Started and ended here, with his mouth against Aziraphale's drawing out delicious sounds and desperation, tracing designs with rough fingers on soft skin, gripping hips hard enough to leave bruises. The demon pulled back, hands still pinning Aziraphale to the sofa.

"Do you want me?" 

Aziraphale nodded, eyes blown wide, lips red raw, kiss swollen. "Please."

Crowley kissed his way back down to the heat between Aziraphale's fleshy thighs, swirled a sinful tongue around the thick Effort that stood proudly from the patch of blond hair. Aziraphale trembled, electricity cracking through the air as Crowley took it upon himself to worship every inch in front of him. 

"Six thousand years, angel," Crowley purred into the deep scent surrounding Aziraphale - summer evenings, strawberries, copper pennies and Aurora Borealis. 

Slick, open, wanting. Hoping. Begging. Praying for something to happen. Crowley took his time; trying not to hurt Aziraphale.

“I’m not going to break,” the angel huffed out through gritted teeth. 

 

Then they were hurtling, through time and space; beyond anything that either of them had experienced before. Through the space between worlds; the stars that Crowley helped hang clutching each other before the descent back to earth; before they both Fell. The room shook, cracks of gold that snaked their way around Aziraphale’s body shone with all the fire of a thousand angels’ Grace. And Crowley, Crowley smelt of patchouli, the air on a frozen winter morning, woodsmoke and dreams.  
“Crowleycrowleycrowleycrowley,” his name tumbled from Aziraphale’s lips, a mantra, a prayer, a fucking hymn of reverence.  
As they span, danced towards the edge; Crowley began to feel heady, and Aziraphale’s body sang beneath him. And if there had been a small earthquake in Soho that afternoon, well the beings on the sofa in the back of a ever-present, dusty old bookshop didn’t feel it.

* * *

 

Later, when bodily fluids had been miracled away and Aziraphale had his arms about Crowley; as if he had always belonged there, and Crowley looked up through long eyelashes with warm, yellow eyes, the angel trembled a little with the thought of having waited so long for this moment.  
“Was that ok?” Crowley asked, softly.  
“Oh my dear boy, it was wonderful.” Aziraphale pushed the floppy fringe out of Crowley’s eyes. “I wouldn’t mind, ah, doing it again.”

Crowley’s eyes went wide, and he smacked Aziraphale’s chest lightly. “You... “

“What? Do you think I spent all that time with Oscar without picking up a few things? And a, er, taste for certain iterations of Efforts?” He smiled wickedly. “In fact, I may have already come to Earth feeling like that.”  
Crowley blushed and buried his face in the angel’s chest. “You mean to tell me, you’ve known about your predilections for thousands of years?”  
“Crowley, my dear, _you_ have always been that predilection. Oscar was simply a way to pass the time.”  
“Which version did you like best?” Crowley’s voice was small.  
Aziraphale smiled radiantly. “All of them. Every single version of you. I have loved you - all of you, from the beginning, and will love until the end of Eternity.”  
“Less poetic, angel,” Crowley growled lowly and Aziraphale huffed out a laugh.  
“Well if you must know, it was when you showed up at the Bastille looking like an eighteenth-century strumpet.”  
“Huh, so you’ve been thirsty since Revolutionary France?” Crowley looked up at him again, eyebrows raised.  
“Let’s just say, I wouldn’t have minded if something had happened.”  
“You bastard,” the realisation dawned on Crowley that, perhaps _that_ had been a ploy. “You knew I’d come looking for you.”  
Aziraphale scoffed in mock offense. “How dare you even imply such a thing.” 

“ _Oh, good Lord_ ,” Crowley mimicked sarcastically, but he crumbled into laughter. And to Aziraphale; that laugh sounded like the pealing of church bells, the babble of a brook, warm, familiar and from a time before time.

  
And, if you were to find a little old bookshop on a street corner in Soho that afternoon, you would find the door quite locked. But, if you were to approach the crack in the door; you would hear whispered declarations of love and smell wildflowers and the beginnings of the earth and the end of all things and feel a crackle in the air. There, two beings; eternal and not of this earth, bent reality around them and sailed towards the stars.


End file.
